Page 21 of Texts From My Exes
“Hey,” the girl next to me whispered loudly. “Are you okay?”
“Huh?” I nearly knocked over my glass in shock she was even speaking to the elderly. “Yeah? Why?”
“You keep… breathing really hard and staring at the door. It’s okay. I get freaked out in big spaces too. Sometimes it helps to count sheep.”
I blinked at her. “Isn’t that for sleeping?”
She frowned. “Is that why it’s never worked?”
I stared. “You serious?”
She nodded solemnly, then crossed her legs in the tightest, shortest red skirt I’d ever seen. Definitely concert or Tinder attire. Possibly illegal.
I waved my phone like a peace flag and barrier between us. “Just waiting for someone.”
Her eyes widened. She scooted toward me with an ear-splitting squeak of leather stool on tile. “Iknewit. I’m so lucky. I heard some K-pop idols were bar-hopping tonight, and now I’ve found one! Which group?”
I looked over my shoulder. “Pardon?”
“You’re Korean!”
I ground my molars. I had a mirror, cool thanks. “Half Korean, my mom is Swedish. And I’m not a musician.”
“Of course you are,” she said, patting my arm. “You have a Samsung Galaxy.”
“…What? I’m sorry, I’m confused.”
How much could a woman blink? And why so fast? Was she fanning my face with her lashes? “Korean idols always have Samsungs.” She laughed and flicked her wrist. “It’s a loyalty thing.”
“Do you… study Koreans?” I asked slowly. “Also, that’s not a thing. A ton of people worldwide use Samsungs. It’s not just an Asian thing—which, by the way, is kind of insulting.”
She clasped her hands over her chest. “And so smart! What’s with the disguise? Hats and sunglasses indoors? Hiding from your fans?”
Clearly, I wasn’t getting out of this alive. I leaned in conspiratorially. “Okay, you got me. But I don’t want my label to drop me. Keep this between us, yeah?”
Her eyes filled with tears. “You’re so brave.”
“It’s hard,” I said gravely. “Some days.”
“Just sing it out,” she whispered. “Give it to the music gods.”
“Oh, I’ll give it something,” I muttered, already plotting the earful Harper was going to get for dragging me to a campus bar.
That’s when I spotted her again—storming past the tables, one stiletto in hand, the other still strapped on.
I tossed cash on the bar. “Gotta go.”
Outside, she stomping away, hobbling actually. I slipped into stride beside her and started talking: “Learned your lesson and took the shoe with you this time, hmm? Cinderella? Princes are overrated anyway.”
She spun on her heel—her one remaining heel—and brandished the other shoe like a weapon.
I put my hands up. “That wasn’t an invitation for violence.”
“He’s the worst!”
I squinted. “Did you at least get any content?”
“Five minutes. Maybe six.” She huffed. “Seven. I lost track, okay? I was too busy not committing homicide.”
